Dead Aim (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Was anyone in the house except you and your wife?” He seemed to pity the transparency of the question. His manner was disdainful, almost condescending as he said, “It was the help’s night off. I don’t have an alibi, Lieutenant. And my wife is a sound sleeper.”

  “What kind of cars do you have?”

  “I have a Continental. My wife has a Mercedes.”

  “Do you have any objection to our lab technicians checking over your cars?”

  “Not really.” As he said it, he seemed suddenly to slump, exhausted. He was staring at the same view that had so transfixed his wife earlier in the day. The Golden Gate Bridge was traced in long, graceful arcs of tiny yellow lights; the scattered houses in the Marin County hills were diamond chips strewn carelessly across the darkness. Moonlight fell in a straight silver pathway across the black water of the bay.

  I rose to my feet. “I’ll be in touch with you, Mr. Manley. I’d like to have you notify me, personally, before you leave the city.”

  He inclined his handsome head politely, murmuring something inaudible, still staring out at his expensive view.

  14

  I TREATED MYSELF TO a rack of lamb at the Loft, a small, casually elegant Union Street restaurant just four blocks from my apartment—and three blocks from the Haywoods’ flat. Even though it was a weekday night, the dining room was crowded. I ate slowly, watching the diners, listening to the laugh-rippled murmur of their conversation. I could sense their mood of holiday excitement. Saturday was Christmas. “Only three shopping days before Christmas,” the papers were proclaiming. It was a depressing statistic, evoking bitterly twisted memories of happier days. I’d done my Christmas shopping in less than an hour, buying a book for Darrell and a record album for Claudia. So far, I hadn’t received a package from either of them.

  I finished the lamb, then the last of the salad. A half cup of coffee remained. I would sit for a few relaxed minutes, sipping the coffee, watching the diners’ faces, listening to random snatches of their conversation. Then I would call on the Haywoods—not because I should, but, somehow, because I must.

  Three days left—

  Last year Darrell and Claudia had flown out from Detroit to spend Christmas with me. Claudia had slept in the single bedroom, Darrell and I together in the living-room hideabed. Gaily, Claudia had undertaken to cook Christmas dinner—a disaster. They’d spoken vaguely of staying through New Year’s, using my car for side trips, hopefully with other teenagers. But among my few friends, only the Friedmans had teenage children, both of them slightly younger than Darrell and Claudia, therefore unacceptable.

  On Christmas Day, with Kreiger out of town and Friedman ill, I’d been called for work at four P.M., supervising two separate homicides, both the result of holiday drinking, aggravating holiday depression. On the twenty-sixth, I’d caught three hours’ sleep in my office. So my children had gone back to Detroit on the twenty-seventh, smiling gravely as they boarded the plane.

  I finished the last sip of coffee and dropped a five-dollar bill on the waiter’s tray. Suddenly I wanted to be out in the wet, anonymous night, working.

  The Haywoods’ porch light was lit, and as I pressed the buzzer I immediately heard footsteps hurriedly approaching. Even with the night chain on, I could recognize fear frozen in her face as she peeked out at me. When she opened the door, fumbling, she stood rigid, one hand pressed flat to her stomach, the other hand tightly gripping the doorknob. Her eyes were vague. Her mouth was open, as if she were gasping for breath.

  “He’s gone,” she whispered. “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I—I’m not sure. Bobby, my youngest, is staying overnight with friends in Marin County. I—I drove him over, about three-thirty this afternoon. Dan stayed here, listening to records. He—he seemed morose. Depressed. I asked him if anything was wrong. He said no, there wasn’t. I wanted him to come with us, but he wouldn’t. I—I told him I’d be home by six-thirty or seven, to fix dinner. We were going to have steaks. But—” Her voice trailed off; her eyes wandered beyond me, as if she hoped to see her oldest son somewhere in the darkness.

  I stepped forward, taking her arm. Even though she moved woodenly beside me, the touch was exciting.

  “Let’s go inside. Tell me about it. I’ll make some calls. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

  But neither of us, I knew, believed it.

  We were in the living room, sitting as we had yesterday. I leaned toward her, saying again, “Tell me about it.”

  She held her hands tightly clasped in her lap, as she had the day before—her prim, proper finishing-school posture.

  “I can’t tell you anything more.” Her voice was unsteady; her eyes glistened. She was shaking her head in slow, helpless bafflement. “I’ve told you everything.”

  “Have you contacted his father?”

  “I tried. But he wasn’t at home. Or at the office, either.”

  “Does he live close by?”

  “Ten or twelve blocks away.”

  “Did Dan say anything after I left last night—anything about Sunday? Anything at all?”

  She began to shake her head dully, then interrupted the movement, dropping her head, frowning.

  “What did he say?” I pressed her. “It’s important for you to tell me everything, even if it seems trivial.”

  Lifting her eyes with obvious effort, she said, “The only thing he said—concerned you, I’m afraid.”

  “What was it?”

  “He said—” She paused. Then, drawing a deep breath and again dropping her eyes: “He said that you were—interested in me. That you were ‘making a big deal of everything’ because of your interest in me.” Her mouth moved in a brief, exhausted smile.

  Feeling myself flush, I realized that I was snorting derisively, confused. “He’s probably down at headquarters, then,” I said quickly, “reporting me for unofficerlike conduct.”

  She managed another small, shadowed smile. But she was treading the ragged edge.

  “Besides,” I said, “I don’t even know your first name. Which, incidentally, I should—for my official departmental interrogation report.”

  “It’s Ann.”

  “Ann,” I repeated. “Good. Thanks.”

  I allowed a moment to pass, then: “He must’ve said something else. You talked yesterday, didn’t you? You must’ve talked after I left.”

  “We didn’t talk much, I’m afraid. Dan seemed very—resentful. Very hostile.” She paused thoughtfully. Then she said, “He did say something about not ‘taking a fall’ for one silly prank. Which, I assumed, referred to his difficulty on the streetcar—I told you about that yesterday.”

  “You say you ‘assumed’ that’s what it was about. But did he mention that streetcar incident particularly? Or were you just taking it for granted?”

  “Well—” She looked down at her clasped fingers.

  “Did he use the word ‘prank’? Or is that your word?”

  Hopelessly she shook her head. “I—I’m not sure, Lieutenant. I just can’t seem to think. Right now, I feel as if I’d like to just—just lie down and go to sleep, and not wake up again until the whole world’s completely different.”

  I got to my feet, standing over her. “Everyone, I suppose, feels like that once in a while. I’ve often thought that the animals have the right idea: hibernation. Just sleep through the winter. In the spring, everything looks better.”

  “Different, anyhow.”

  I smiled down at her, asking, “Where’s your phone?”

  “In the—”

  A key rattled in the door. She was on her feet, close beside me, facing the hallway. I heard footsteps. Dan Haywood was standing in the archway. He was wearing the same sweater he’d worn yesterday, and the same khaki pants. A tall, dark-haired man with pale, intense eyes and a hard, precise mouth brushed past the boy. The man wore a dark tweed suit, expensively cut. His face was masklike: rigid and unrevealing—a face calculated to
disguise emotion, never reveal it. He carried himself with calm, arrogant authority.

  “Who’re you?” he asked, facing me at a distance of three feet. His voice was low, vibrant with hostility, edged with a quiet, controlled scorn.

  “That’s Lieutenant Hastings,” the boy said, from the archway. “He’s the head man. I told you about him.”

  The man stood very erect, fingers flexing at his sides. Briefly it occurred to me that he looked as if he were posing for a heroic statue. He drew a deep breath, deliberately looking me over. Watching him, I realized that he, like myself, was a professional inquisitor—an expert at intimidation and persuasion. At will, he could seem either a distant friend or a dangerous enemy. He could be brutal or solicitous—a cold, subtle practitioner who could deftly play the subconscious against the conscious, fear against hope, friendship against loneliness and despair.

  “I am Arthur Haywood,” he said slowly, holding my gaze with his inexorable gray eyes. “Dan’s father.”

  I nodded acknowledgment, determined to remain silent as long as possible. Not knowing whether the boy had been questioned about the fingerprint, I was at a disadvantage. Belatedly, I realized ruefully that instead of leisurely enjoying rack of lamb, I should have been putting out a call for Markham. It was a mistake that could cost me dearly during the next few minutes. If Markham had given the boy a hard time interrogating him on the premises, without parental consent, I could have a problem.

  “Are you aware,” Haywood was saying, “that your men have been harassing my son?”

  I settled myself more firmly, crossing my arms. If he was angry, and I remained calm, I could still take the first round.

  “Are you?”

  “You’ll have to explain what you mean by ‘harassing,’ Mr. Haywood.”

  “I mean, precisely, that one of your men entered this house today and tried to intimidate Dan. Entry was effected illegally. Dan wasn’t advised of his rights under the Constitution. Furthermore, as a minor, he is entitled to special protection from police harassment.”

  “As a matter of fact,” I said slowly, “I was just about to phone downtown, when you came in. Mrs. Haywood, naturally, was very upset, coming home to find the boy gone. I was going to try to ease her mind, if I could.” I glanced first at her pale, drawn face, then at the boy, who shifted slightly, dropping his eyes.

  “If she’d been here, as she was supposed to be, the boy wouldn’t’ve had to find me—interrupt me with patients, in fact.” Haywood’s tone was unchanged—calculatedly brutal, insulting. He didn’t bother to look at the woman.

  “Would you like to wait for me to call my office?” I asked. “When I do, maybe I can give you some answers.”

  “You needn’t bother. I’m leaving here for my lawyer’s. You can talk to him. But in the meantime—” Haywood glanced briefly at his watch, then raised a threatening forefinger. “In the meantime, Lieutenant, I warn you: any further harassment of Dan will cost you dearly. I’m not going to go into the details of my standing in the community; if you’re interested, my—Mrs. Haywood can fill you in. I promise you, though, that you’ll pay, personally, for any more of these police-state tactics.” He held me with his pale, arrogant eyes while he slowly lowered the warning forefinger. His timing was perfect.

  I would have been wise to simply lower my gaze, refusing to answer, waiting for him to leave. But his cold contempt suddenly seemed too plainly a distillate of the constant street-corner scorn no cop can ever quite forget.

  I withdrew my billfold and took out a business card. Handing the card to him, I said, “I try to be in the office most mornings, Mr. Haywood. If you’d like to call ahead, I can probably make time for you.”

  I had my brief, spurious moment of victory: a plain flicker of naked, uncontrolled rage smoldered briefly deep behind his eyes.

  “It’s Doctor Haywood,” he said very softly, “not ‘Mister.’ And if I were you, I’d—” He interrupted his own banality, saving himself from even a small defeat. Then, drawing a slow, deep breath, he elaborately checked the time. Turning to Ann Haywood, he acknowledged her presence for the first time, saying, “My lawyer will be in touch with you first thing tomorrow—possibly tonight. In the meantime—” He inclined his head an inch toward me. “In the meantime, I’d advise you to invite your—friend to leave. But in any case, he’s expressly forbidden to interrogate Dan.”

  Arthur Haywood turned away abruptly. He paused a moment in the archway, shaking hands with the boy, crisply repeating his parting instructions in a clear, concise voice. Then, without looking back, he was gone.

  As the front door closed, I held Dan’s eyes. For the briefest moment I thought he would speak—asking, not demanding. But in the next moment he’d disappeared down the hallway. I heard his rapid footsteps, then the slam of a door.

  As I turned to Ann Haywood, I saw her sigh once, very deeply. She stood staring at the empty archway. She held both hands clasped, knuckle-white, just at her waist.

  Then she sobbed, suddenly, quickly twisting away, sinking down on the sofa. She held both hands in a symmetrical temple just in front of her face, fingertips tight against the bridge of her nose. Still turned away, she was struggling for self-control, testing herself with repeated sighs. Finally: “I—I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I—” She sniffled.

  “Do you want a handkerchief?”

  “Yes, thank you. I—I never seem to have one when I need it.”

  I passed her my handkerchief, sitting to face her, watching her dab at her eyes.

  “You can blow your nose,” I said. “Keep it. I’ll charge the department.”

  Tremulously she smiled, then obeyed. “I’ll—” She gulped. “I’ll launder it for you.”

  “Fine.”

  As she worked at her face, her snuffling slowly subsided. “I’m afraid Arthur doesn’t think much of me as a mother figure,” she said finally.

  “It’s none of my official business, but I don’t think much of him as a father figure.”

  She hesitated, then said in a small, chastened voice, “Arthur has very high standards—for himself, and everyone else. Unfortunately, he usually manages to meet his own standards.”

  “High standards can be tough on a kid.”

  “On everyone else, too, I’m afraid.”

  “I suppose so.”

  We sat silently for a long, uncomfortable moment, avoiding each other’s eyes.

  “What’s happening, Lieutenant? What’s happening to Dan? Is there evidence against him—something my husband suspects?”

  “I can’t answer that. Not until I’ve talked to my men, then talked to Dan. I’ve been working on another case for most of the day. Your hus—Mr. Haywood had me at a disadvantage. Which, luckily, he didn’t seem to fully realize.”

  She smiled very faintly. “It’s ‘Doctor.’ Not ‘Mister.’”

  I absently answered her smile. I was rethinking Arthur Haywood’s threats, and trying to assess Dan’s reactions. I was thinking, too, that if Markham had actually harassed the boy, there wasn’t much I could do to make matters officially worse. If the department was already in trouble, a gamble might be the best gambit—like Friedman’s car heist.

  “I have a very unorthodox proposition for you,” I said thoughtfully.

  Her eyes lightened, ruefully quizzical. “A proposition, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes. I’d like you to visit the neighbors for a half-hour or so. I’d like to talk to your son, without you in the house. After I’ve talked to him, I should be able to tell you something about the case. I can’t promise good news. But at least it might be something.”

  “You say should be able to tell me something.”

  “That’s the best I can do. There’s no point in making a promise I can’t keep.”

  “If my husband finds out—and he will—we’ll both suffer for it.”

  “Maybe.”

  Her hands were in her lap, tightly clasped. Staring down at her fingers, she said, “I—I can’t think of any neighbor
s that I can just pop in on at this time of the night.”

  “Go to the Loft. Have a drink. When I’m finished, I’ll come for you. That might be better, in fact.”

  With frightened eyes she searched my face. Then, plainly without hope, she agreed.

  15

  I TAPPED SOFTLY ON Dan Haywood’s bedroom door. Entering on his muttered invitation, I saw him sitting hunched at a small desk. Turning, seeing me, his eyes widened.

  “Wh—” He craned his neck, looking behind me.

  “Your mother is out.” I closed the door and sat on the bed to face him. “I want to talk to you.”

  “But my—my father. He’ll—”

  “He won’t do anything to me, Dan. And he won’t do anything to you, either. Not if you tell me the truth. That’s the only way to straighten this out: tell the truth.”

  “I have been telling the truth.” His voice was dogged, sullen. He was obviously trying to achieve the same loose, slack-shouldered insolence with which he’d confronted me yesterday.

  “Inspector Markham talked to you today.” It was a statement, not a question.

  He didn’t reply.

  “He told you that we have evidence you were on the Draper premises Sunday night.”

  “Listen, my father will—”

  “What were you doing at the Drapers’ garage?”

  “What makes you think I was at their stupid—” He seemed baffled. His eyes circled the room, as though searching for some way to escape.

  “Your fingerprints are on the door handle,” I said quietly.

  “Prove it.” His voice slipped to a momentary falsetto as he spat out his challenge from childhood.